Chapter Text
Dr. Robby stood at the central station, scanning fresh CT images on the monitor. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week. There was a hard crease between his brows, a cup of lukewarm, pitch-black coffee in his hand, and the tense posture of a predator ready to strike. Langdon’s absence was felt physically, like a missing limb; the phantom pain of it made Robby even less tolerant of everyone else's mistakes. He needed someone who would just do, someone who wouldn’t argue like Santos or lag behind like Samira.
“Whitaker!” Robby’s voice cut through the hum of the ventilation. It wasn’t loud, but it carried that commanding edge that made people flinch. He didn't even turn around, knowing the student was nearby; Dennis was always nearby, like a faithful shadow.
As soon as Dennis approached, Robby reached out without looking away from the screen. He grabbed the younger man by the shoulder, jerking him sharply into his personal space. It wasn't a friendly embrace, but a hard, possessive grip. He literally spun Dennis to face the monitor, holding him so tightly that the boy’s shoulder pressed against Robby’s chest.
“Look,” Robby said, pointing a finger at the black-and-white image of a skull. He smelled of the strong coffee he’d been drinking and sharp antiseptic. “See this line? That’s a basilar skull fracture”.
He leaned close to Dennis’s ear, his voice dropping to a low, husky whisper meant only for the two of them.
“Neurosurgery says wait. If we wait, this guy dies of cerebral edema within the hour”.
Robby squeezed Dennis’s shoulder harder, his fingers digging into the muscle through the fabric of the scrubs. Finally, he turned his head, looking down at Dennis with heavy, dark eyes filled with exhaustion and defiance.
“You’re going to Trauma Three. You take this patient, and you do not leave his side. Check his pupils every five minutes. If even one of them dilates, you don’t look for a nurse, and you don’t look for me. You administer mannitol—used to lower intracranial pressure—and then you scream so loud I can hear you from the other end of the hall. Do you understand me, Whitaker?”.
He waited for an answer, scanning Dennis’s face for fear. Robby knew he was soft, but he needed to know if this soft material could harden under pressure.
“Well? I’m waiting”.
Whitaker nodded vigorously, raising his hands in a slightly awkward gesture.
“Yes, Dr. Robby,” the boy answered brightly, tearing his gaze away from Trauma Three to look back into his mentor's deep brown eyes. A web of fine lines crinkled at the corners of Robby's eyes, and his greying brows met at the bridge of his nose—not aggressively, but with intense focus and gravity.
Robby huffed, noticing the energetic nod and the clumsy hands. It was so... Whitaker. He had that aura of small-town awkwardness. Robby needed to beat that softness out of the kid, to temper him without breaking the moral compass that Dennis undoubtedly possessed.
“And put your hands down; you’re not surrendering,” Robby grumbled without malice, finally releasing Dennis’s shoulder. However, he didn't break contact entirely; his palm slid from the squeezed shoulder to the boy's back, between the shoulder blades, and he gave Dennis a short but firm shove forward. It was the gesture of a mentor sending a fighter into the ring.
“You’re going in there to fight for a life, Whitaker. Look the part,” he added more quietly.
Robby had clearly seen how the student had been studying him a moment ago, scanning every wrinkle and every grey hair with those large, moist eyes. That attention was... heavy. It placed the burden of being the infallible god of medicine on Robby’s shoulders—the way this boy seemingly saw him. And Robby felt damn tired, broken, and old.
“Now, vanish,” he snapped, turning abruptly back to the computer to hide the shadow of doubt and fatigue crossing his face. “If the Glasgow Coma Scale level drops below 13, you know the protocol. Don’t let me down”.
He watched Dennis’s back until he reached the doors of Trauma Three. As soon as Whitaker disappeared behind the curtain, Trinity Santos approached the desk. She adjusted the stethoscope around her neck, followed Robby’s gaze, and gave a crooked smirk.
“Sending Huckleberry to the front lines, Doc?” she snorted with her usual sass. “Better watch out, or he might faint from the responsibility or start praying over the monitor”.
Robby slowly turned his head toward her; the hidden warmth that had been in his eyes a second ago vanished instantly.
“Get to work, Santos,” he cut her off dryly, without even raising his voice. “Whitaker is doing work that requires grit, not a sharp tongue. And you...” He snatched a random chart from the stack and shoved it into her hands without looking. “Exam Room Two. Gluteal abscess. Incise and drain. Move”.
Trauma Three was quiet and dim; the patient lay motionless. Dennis was left alone with the beep of the monitor and a man with a ticking time bomb in his head. The responsibility Robby had spoken of settled onto his shoulders like a concrete slab.
Dennis approached the head of the bed, pulled out his penlight, and swallowed hard. He leaned over the patient’s face to check his pupils, feeling as though he could still feel the warmth of Robby’s palm between his shoulder blades.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Whitaker. I’ll be monitoring you. Is anything bothering you right now?”
Placing a hand on the patient’s head, Whitaker gently tilted it back and quickly checked the pupils. The man, his face a sickly grey, flinched at the touch as if from an electric shock. The bright beam of the flashlight hit his eyes, making him wince and let out a strangled groan.
The right pupil reacted perfectly, constricting in the light and dilating in the shadow. But the left... the left pupil was sluggish. It reacted, but with a noticeable, heavy delay. It wasn't fully dilated yet, as Robby had warned, but it was in the "grey zone".
“My head...” the man rasped, trying to raise a hand to his temple, but his movements were uncoordinated and weak, his speech slightly slurred. “I’m nauseous... really nauseous”.
Robby had told him to call if the pupil dilated; right now, it was just slow. This was the tipping point where Whitaker had to decide: panic or wait another five minutes as ordered. Suddenly, the man took a sharp breath and tried to push himself up on his elbows, his face turning green.
“Bucket...” he gasped.
Whitaker shoved the penlight back into his chest pocket and threw the door open with his shoulder, locking eyes with the first nurse he saw—it was Kim. Dennis had a strange relationship with her; it felt like they were... flirting? Trinity had mentioned that Kim sometimes watched him when he was focused. Kim was very beautiful and perhaps slightly older than Dennis, though not by much. Either way, now was not the time to be picky.
“Basin! Fast!” he shouted.
Kim, standing by the med cart a few feet away, startled at his shout. But her professionalism kicked in faster than her surprise. She instantly snatched a pink plastic basin from the stack and practically slammed it into his chest.
“Here!” she panted. In her beautiful, almond-shaped eyes, something personal flickered for a second—the look Trinity had described.
But Dennis didn't have time to analyze it. He spun on his heel and flew back into the room just as the patient began to heave. He managed to shove the basin under the man’s chin a split second before he vomited. The sounds were sickening, the smell sharp and acidic. The man’s whole body shuddered, his face flushing a deep, unhealthy red from the strain.
“Easy, easy, it’s okay, let it out...” Whitaker muttered, steadying the man’s shoulder with one hand while holding the basin with the other, feeling his own muscles tremble. For someone with a basilar skull fracture, this kind of strain was a disaster; his intracranial pressure was skyrocketing.
When the spasm passed, the man went limp, falling back against the pillow. He stopped groaning and went quiet—too quiet, and too fast.
“Mr. Evans?” Dennis called out, setting the soiled basin on the floor. “Mr. Evans, open your eyes”.
Silence, save for the monitor’s beep, which had slowed down slightly. Whitaker snatched his penlight again; his hands were shaking, but he forced them to obey as he lifted the man's eyelid.
The left pupil had blown. It filled almost the entire iris—a black, bottomless hole that didn't react to the light at all. Brain edema was compressing the brainstem.
Tearing his eyes from the monitor, Whitaker administered the mannitol, feeling sweat pool on his forehead as his throat went dry. His hands, slick with perspiration, slipped against the ampoule, but his movements were surprisingly precise; muscle memory took over. He drew the medication, injected it into the catheter port, and pushed the plunger. The clear liquid surged into the vein—the only chance this brain had not to crush itself.
Whitaker yanked the syringe out. Now for the second part of the order.
“Dr. Robby!” The scream tore from his throat so loud it drowned out the monitor, which was now thumping the rhythmic alarm of bradycardia. “Pupil is blown!”
The curtain flew aside so violently it was as if a hurricane had ripped it away. Robby was there instantly; he seemed to simply materialize. He gripped an oxygen mask in one hand. Robby didn't even look at Dennis; his gaze was locked on the patient’s face. He yanked Mr. Evans’s eyelid up and shone his own light, confirming the student was telling the truth. The black disc of the pupil was massive and fixed.
“Mannitol?” he barked without turning, already grabbing the head of the bed.
Whitaker silently held up the empty syringe as proof.
Robby froze for a fraction of a second. He turned his head, and his dark eyes met Dennis's. In that look, for a heartbeat, something like pride flickered, mixed with relief.
“Kim!” Robby roared loud enough to rattle the glass. “Call neurosurgery! Tell them ‘Code Trauma, brainstem herniation’!” “We’re coming up right now! If they tell you to wait, tell them I’ll personally come up there and drill through their own skulls!”
He kicked the wheel locks on the bed, releasing them. “Whitaker, on the gurney! On top!” he commanded, shoving the heavy bed toward the exit. “Hold his jaw and breathe for him with the Ambu bag, he’s stopping! Move!”
Dennis had to jump onto the moving gurney mid-stride, kneeling on either side of the patient like a paramedic in a movie; it was a messy, vibrating reality. He pressed the mask to the man’s face and began rhythmically squeezing the bag.
Robby pushed the gurney from behind with the force of a locomotive, maneuvering through the hallway.
“Out of the way! Move!” he bellowed, scattering bystanders.
They raced toward the elevators, adrenaline peaking. Whitaker sat astride the patient, pumping air into his lungs, and right below him, he could see Robby’s face—distorted with strain and wet with sweat. Robby wasn't looking at the path ahead; he was looking at the hands squeezing the Ambu bag.
“Keep the rhythm, Whitaker!” he yelled over the roar of the wheels. “One... two... breathe! One... two... breathe! Don’t let him die in my elevator!”
Whitaker merely nodded, matching the rhythm and counting it in his head: One... two... breathe.
The elevator hummed as it carried them to the neurosurgery floor. In the confined space, the air felt scalding hot. The sound of the Ambu bag was the only metronome marking the seconds of Mr. Evans’s life. Dennis felt sweat trickling down his back under his scrubs, but his hands, used to the hard work of the farm, didn't falter. He wasn't tired, even though several minutes had passed.
Robby stood flush against the gurney, squeezed between it and the elevator wall, his eyes never leaving the monitor at the patient’s feet.
“Saturation is holding, 98%,” he commented hoarsely, then lunged forward to check the man’s carotid pulse. Since Dennis occupied nearly all the space at the head of the bed, Robby had to literally lean over the edge of the gurney. His shoulder bumped into Dennis’s thigh, and to keep his balance in the jolting elevator, his free hand instinctively gripped Dennis’s knee.
Robby’s fingers tightened on Whitaker’s kneecap, almost to the point of pain. “Pulse is thready, but it’s there,” Robby muttered, his face level with Dennis’s waist as he felt the patient’s neck. He looked up; from this angle, he was looking up at Dennis—a rare occurrence. He saw the focused face of the boy and the steady work of his hands.
“You’re holding him, Whitaker,” Robby said, and his hand on Dennis’s knee squeezed once more—encouragingly—before he straightened up. “You’re holding him on this earth with your own damn hands. Don’t break”.
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open.
“Neurosurgery!” Robby yelled, instantly switching back into "battle tank" mode. “Let’s go!”.
He shoved the gurney forward so sharply that Dennis had to grip the sides of the bed with his thighs to keep from sliding off. They burst into the sterile hallway of the surgical department, a stark contrast to the chaos of the Pit. A team in blue scrubs was already coming toward them. A tall surgeon with a displeased expression held up a hand to stop them.
“Dr. Robinavitch, we’re not ready!” he began. “The OR is just being cleared, we can't—”.
“His pupil is the size of a quarter!” Robby cut him off, not slowing down. “We’re going into OR One, and you’re going to open him up right now, or I’ll take the drill myself! Whitaker, do not stop ventilating!”
Robby was terrifying in his rage, protecting his patient with the fury of a junkyard dog. And Dennis, towering over it all on the gurney, felt like part of this mad, unstoppable machine that Robby was driving.
They flew into the scrub room.
“Transferring!” Robby commanded. “Whitaker, on the count of three, jump down, but keep pumping until the anesthesiologist hooks him up. Got it?” Robby stood beside him, his hand back on Dennis’s lower back, bracing him in case the student’s legs buckled after the adrenaline storm.
“Yes!” was all Dennis could manage. He rose to his knees and jumped off the bed quickly, never stopping the rhythm of the Ambu bag. He stumbled slightly from the momentum, but stayed upright.
“Transferring! One, two... lift!” Robby ordered. They hauled the body onto the operating table. Dennis moved in sync with them, stepping aside without letting go of the mask.
“I’m connecting to the ventilator,” the anesthesiologist said, quickly taking the tube from Dennis. “I’ve got CO2. I’m in. Back off, kid”.
The moment the responsibility was handed over, Dennis felt his hands suddenly become light and useless. The Ambu bag he had been squeezing remained with the patient, no longer needed.
“Out! Everyone out!” the lead surgeon barked, and the OR doors began to close in their faces.
Robby, who had been watching the monitor until the last second, turned sharply. He grabbed Dennis by the elbow and literally hauled him out of the scrub room into the hallway before the automatic doors could seal them off.
They were alone in the empty, quiet corridor. The contrast with the chaos of moments ago was deafening. Dennis stood, breathing heavily, his hands trembling slightly.
Robby didn't let go of his elbow. He pulled Dennis closer to the wall and stood opposite him, blocking out the rest of the world. He was breathing hard too, his face slick with sweat.
He released Dennis’s elbow, but in a sharp, impulsive movement, both of his palms landed on the boy’s shoulders, squeezing the trapezius muscles with a strength bordering on rough. He gave him a slight shake.
“You saved his brain, Whitaker. You bought him time. If you had hesitated with the mannitol or lost the rhythm in the elevator—he would have been a vegetable”.
He leaned in closer, searching his protégé’s face for signs of a collapse.
“Breathe,” Robby ordered. “In and out. Come on”.
Robby took a deliberate, deep breath, his eyes never leaving Dennis’s, his hot, heavy hands still on the boy’s shoulders. He was grounding him, making sure Dennis didn't fall apart right there.
Whitaker pressed his lips together, inhaled sharply, and let out a deep breath. He nodded as if to show he was okay, not wanting Robby to worry.
“I’m okay, Dr. Robby”.
He looked up with large eyes. Robby stood over him, a good head taller. The light behind Robby’s head silhouetted him, making him look almost saintly in the boy's eyes. His lower lip trembled slightly.
Robby didn't look away; he saw that treacherous trembling. He saw the dark circles that made Dennis look like a frightened raccoon, and the way the kid looked at him like he was an icon come to life.
It was both irritating and flattering. Robby felt like anything but a saint—he was soaked in sweat and caffeine— but if Whitaker needed to believe in a deity to survive this shift, let him.
“You’re a terrible liar, Whitaker,” Robby said softly. There was no reproach, just a weary statement of fact.
He slowly removed one hand from Dennis’s shoulder, but not to break contact. Instead, he raised his palm and, in a rough but oddly tender motion, brushed his thumb across Dennis’s cheekbone, then for a second pressed it to the boy's chin as if to physically stop the trembling.
“You’re shaking because the adrenaline is fading. It’s biochemistry; don’t feel guilty about it”.
His thumb was rough, hot, and smelled of latex. It lingered on Dennis’s skin a moment longer than any protocol allowed as he looked into those impossible blue-green eyes.
“Now breathe again. Deeper”.
Robby pulled his hand back sharply, as if burned, and stepped away, shattering the "saintly" aura and returning to his role as the exhausted department head.
“Let’s go. The elevator is waiting. If we stay here another minute, I’ll start thinking about how much paperwork I have to file for this heroic dash”.